Is it Worth the Light
by JustDreamingOutLoud
Summary: A light exploration of Moordryd/Artha and of a different writing style. More of a long-ish drabble than anything else. Moordryd struggles with a fairly common inclination, and Artha might know more than Moordryd thinks. Warning: Moordryd/Artha fluff-ish.


Is it Worth the Light

_Title: Is it Worth the Light_

_Fandom: Dragon Booster_

_Pairing: Moordryd/Artha_

_Rating: T?_

_Summery: A light exploration of Moordryd/Artha and of a different writing style. More of a long-ish drabble than anything else. Moordryd struggles with a fairly common inclination, and Artha might know more than Moordryd thinks. Warning: Moordryd/Artha fluff-ish. Some probable slight OOC'ness. Unbeted._

_Disclaimer: I, JustDreamingOutLoud, the author, do not own and am not receiving money for anything even remotely connected to Dragon Booster. Or any money at all, actually. I'm broke. I need food._

* * *

There was light and it came from him. Not artificial light, but the luminous glow the moon gave when it was new- at least that's what it looked like. And just like the moon, he was out of reach. There could not possibly be a chance, a moment, in which he could touch. It just wasn't like that.

It was the way he moved, the way he stopped. He imagined the way he could smile, the way he could comfort, caress. If it was anything like the moon, then he would be satisfied with just that.

But he, himself, moved differently- too differently. His ways, his life, his purpose and the expectations of him. His dreams, though, they were like his. Maybe his wants, his desires, the things he wanted for himself- maybe they weren't too estrange from his, either.

It was the way he sounded, the way he listened. It was too much.

-~X~-

Longer, whiter hair. Taller, leaner frame. "Moordryd, you've disappointed me once again. Leave my sight. Now."

How could he say his name like that? Like there was nothing to it- like his name held nothing. His face was a blank canvas- no, a black canvas, a black canvas that someone had painted in white. Fake.

"Yes, father."

He had figured there would be an end to the pain of his father's words. That one day that snide, sharp tongue would cut him no more, no matter the acidic bile that it produced. That he would grow accustomed, immune. But it hurt just the same as when he was a child; he was his father, his family, and no amount of pain or hatred or longing could asunder that.

Everything was set, and no matter how much he loathed it, he was set.

The truth was that he was encircled by darkness and shadows that crept and slid and goose-bumped his skin with terror and disgust. He knew it to be true. But there was his father, and his father created the dark, and his father created he.

This dark circle was a repellent to his light. Light and dark, the complete opposites. But he was drawn to the light anyway, like a single-minded moth. Whether his light really was a gentle, silky glow of caresses, or a burning hot fire that would burn and singe his wings, Moordryd had no idea and was far too far away to see for sure. He was just a glimmer in the distance.

-~X~-

Through his lashes he saw the city and he saw the grime of the lower and above the hustle of the higher. He saw the brat with his light and his dragon and he wanted to punch something solid. His existence was like a personal japery- a taunt. But then he smiled, and Moordryd was lost.

He could never admit it, not within his lifetime, but his innards told him that he could easy die- could, would, willingly, if the last thing he would see was that.

"Licked your wounds yet?"

He looked to see the brunette not even a meter away from him. Moordryd took a surprised step back. "What?"

He smiled- it was mischievous. "From yesterday. I beat you, remember?"

Moordryd placed his customary sneer in place. The brat was trying to patronise him again. "Aren't you forgetting something? You know, maybe the two races before that?"

"You're living in the past, Moordryd," he said, waving his words off, smile still in place. The streetlight hit the scales of the tower of muscles, Beau, behind Artha, the red and blue glistening.

"What are you doing here, Stable Brat?" Moordryd demanded, his jaw tense. Artha's movement spoke of confidence, of knowing who he was and what he wanted to do. He had the confidence of a man knowing his path was the one of good, of knowing of his light.

"If I was to say 'I could ask you the same thing' would you think less of me?" It was obvious that Artha was in a good mood. He was all smiles and playfulness. Moordryd wondered why he was acting like this.

"I don't think that's possible," Moordryd scoffed. He gave one last glance to Beau before turning and walking away. His footsteps echoed eerily, and suddenly he realised he felt self-conscious of the noise.

"Hate me that much, hey, Paynn." It was more of a statement than a question.

Stopping, Moordryd narrowed his eyes back at the brunette. "You almost sound surprised."

Artha smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. "Guess I shouldn't expect anything more."

Glaring now, Moordryd crossed his arms.

But Artha's smile slowly dropped away. "It doesn't have to be like that, you know."

"What can it be like, then?" Moordryd asked dryly, his expression unchanging.

Maybe all Artha's smiles had been false, a facade; his face now held nothing but sorrow. The look of him was no longer assured. And it was his eyes.

"We could have been friends. You could have been good."

"In what parallel universe is this fantasy again?"

Artha paused, his face still open like that. "Don't you ever want to be more than just the bad guy?"

Moordryd's lips wrinkled and he frowned. The brat must be playing games. Again.

Looking around once, Artha walked towards the white-haired boy, his gait no longer as confident- though he obviously tried to match it. "I watch you, you know."

Snorting in amusement to cover his surprise, Moordryd eyed Artha suspiciously as he stepped close, but he had lost his voice.

Smiling slightly again, but not as genuine this time, more sadly, Artha clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at Moordryd thoughtfully. "You're not so complicated."

"You know nothing about me," came Moordryd's low, ruptured retort. It hadn't been planned, but he was glad for it nonetheless.

Tilting his head, Artha seemed to almost chew on his cheek in thought. "You see, I _would_ believe that- truly, I would, if it weren't for the fact I know just how lonely you are."

Taken aback, Moordryd took a literal step backwards. "I- I'm not-"

"Yes, yes you are," Artha said. His unrelenting gaze was burning. Fire! "You have your posse, but they don't really know you. You have your father, but he doesn't really care about you-"

"Don't you dare!" Moordryd thundered, his teeth clenching and his fists balling. He straightened to his full height. "You have no idea! None!"

Artha almost looked sheepish, but he firmed his own jaw in determination. "I see your flaws, Moordryd, I see them."

Still aggravated, Moordryd tore his gaze from the brunette and stared instead at a random section of wall. The street was below the line of the city, only available by descending stairs, dragon height walls on either side- overfilling trash cans, discarded plastic bags full of rubbish and rats all around.

"You see nothing."

Then Artha was only a couple of feet away and was looking at him; Moordryd could just feel his eyes on him even though he wasn't looking himself. "I do- and guess what?"

Silence.

"I accept them."

His whole body split. His brain, his muscles, his innards, his heart. It was painful.

Shaking his head, Moordryd backed away once more, hands up defensively. "Shut up," he said hoarsely. He couldn't look at the brunette before him, couldn't look at the light, the glow, the fire. It wasn't possible, because he didn't want to fly to him and burn.

He turned, ran, mounted his dragon, ignored the single call of his name, and left as quickly as he could.

-~X~-

"Do you accept my flaws?"

"Your _flaws_?"

Moordryd stood rigid before his father. It had been two weeks since he had seen the Stable Brat, but he couldn't get his words out of his head. They scraped at the inside of his scalp. Clawed. They chewed on his rib bones, almost snapping them. But worst of all- there was a piece of _his_ light within him, travelling, exploring, discovering what it seemingly already knew. He hated it, because it wasn't his.

"Yes."

"What kind of a question is that?" he sneered, his eyes narrowing at his son. "Why are you wasting my time with such trivial topics? You're supposed to be acquiring those new dragons for me."

Moordryd barely battered an eyelash, but inside he kept hearing those words, "_I accept them,"_ and he wanted to scream violently. "Yes, Father. Right away."

Not even taking his dragon, Moordryd walked. The sun was dropping, the moon rising, and Moordryd stared at the glowing orb.

As conflicted as he was, and as lost as he was, he knew where he was going. He was a moth to a light, after all. Artha had said he watched Moordryd, but what Artha didn't know was that he had been watching the brunette, too. He found the Stable Brat underneath a short tree, it's branches and leaves full and wide. He remained silent and just watched him until the boy realised he was standing there.

Artha blinked and then stood up and brushed his pants off. "Moordryd. I knew you'd come."

After remaining silent for a few seconds, he knew he was giving Artha a confused look and so he cleared his throat. "What made you think I would tonight?"

Smiling, Artha shook his head and shrugged a little. "If not tonight then last night, or the night before that, or maybe even tomorrow..."

Holding in his gasp, Moordryd steeled himself. "You've been waiting? What makes you so confident?"

"I've already told you," Artha smiled, his innocent gaze often drifting from Moordryd to the grass back to the boy. "I know you."

"You don't know me," Moordryd said stubbornly.

"I know how much you need this," Artha trailed off as he stepped up and touched Moordryd gently on the shoulder. It was nothing more than a brush of his fingers, hardly any pressure, but, to Moordryd, it felt like he'd grasped it and dug his nails in. Moordryd let out his gasp and flinched away.

"You're so deprived, Moordryd, so lonely..." Artha sighed, sad-eyed again.

Too stubborn to admit such a thing even to himself, yet too attached to storm off, Moordryd merely lingered on the spot awkwardly.

"Let me in."

Another pause spread out between them, long and silent, unknowing.

"...You said you see my flaws," Moordryd said gingerly, slowly.

"Yes," Artha said and nodded lightly. "But I also see your perfections. I accept both; they are what makes you whole- makes you, you."

Gulping, Moordryd turned away from Artha. The intent, the purpose, was all building up like hot liquid inside him. "You...Artha...you are- sacred to me."

He was met with silence and so he continued.

"And I want your light. Even if you _are_ fire, and you do burn me, I will happily lose my wings to you, and live without them."

A warm hand touched his back, between his jutting shoulder blades. He forced back a flinch and a shudder ensued. The hand doubled and spread. It was a hug. A hug.

"You're speaking in riddles, Moordryd," Artha said with humour. His dark hair tickling the back of Moordryd's neck and the teenager's arms loose but firm around him at the same time. "Just tell me you love me."

"Ah...!" Moordryd couldn't help the noise that escaped. His eyebrows high.

Love.

It was breathed. "I love you."

"Not before I loved you."

* * *

_ENDO_

_I really like this pairing. I suppose this was an exploration of sorts. I know the dialogue was weird and OOC, but I wanted to continue with the theme/feel that sprouted as I wrote. Knowing!Artha, lol. _

_I do have another snippet I continued with, but I haven't uploaded it. But if someone was to maybe ask for it I might consider to be generous._

_J-DOL out._


End file.
